But That's What Makes It Love
by irislim
Summary: Beauty lies, more often than not, in the eye of the beholder. But what happens when a certain Derbyshire gentleman sees things in a completely different way? A Regency AU with an eventual HEA. (Sample Only)


The bustle of the assembly hall did not escape him. He grumbled, angry, at every turn. To his right, he found George guiding him, as both friend and assistant, towards the heart of their current social endeavor. To his left, he felt Miss Bingley's inevitable claws - her fingers anxious for any excuse to sink into his flesh.

He would always rue the day he allowed her to learn of his - disadvantages.

"I assure you I am well, Miss Bingley. You truly ought to enjoy the assembly," Darcy refused to move further beyond what his senses perceived to be the area for dancing. More than ever, he wished he had his friend's persuasion. "Your brother requires your support."

"Oh, Mr. Darcy!" Every word was a screech from Miss Bingley, her words crackling louder than the layers of her dress or the clanging of her jewels. Darcy had heard often of the unflattering descriptions George, Richard, and even Charles directed towards her wardrobe. Standing beside her as he did now, Darcy himself felt the edges of her billowing skirts brushing against his legs.

The sensation was unpleasant, to say the least.

"But if I were to dance and _mingle_ with these - villagers - then who, pray tell, sir, would accompany you?" Her whining tones did nothing to ease Darcy's spirit. "Why, the crowd here is almost _vulgar_. How can I leave you, Mr. Darcy, to the wolves!"

His impairments were not the kind to be easily distinguishable. To the untrained eye, his pupils moved as they should, his gaze focused as it ought to. Despite their lack of perception, his eyes still shifted towards wherever his mind set itself. He did not need her assistance in portraying a healthful man.

For those purposes, George more than sufficed.

The fact that Miss Bingley's proffered help was both unnecessary and unwelcome only rendered Darcy's situation more uncomfortable.

"Oh dear, my brother is dancing yet _again_." There was a clucking in her voice that spoke of her disapproval. "Shall he never learn?"

Darcy commanded his face not to frown, his voice to level. "Is she unacceptable?"

"I - I would not be so quick to judge." There was a faltering in her tone - a window of opportunity.

"Then perhaps you ought to make the young woman's acquaintance. He may just fall for her beauty."

There was helpfulness, he found, in a thorough understanding of his friend's character. There was no doubt in Darcy's mind, even then, that Charles was for certain dancing with the prettiest girl in the room that very moment. There were things about perfect eyesight that drew young men to local beauties like moths to a flame.

If anything, Darcy was happy tonight that he himself was immune.

There were better things to do with his life than keep the supposedly handsome Miss Bingley company in a populated ballroom.

"I suppose you are right, Mr. Darcy - as you always are." He felt her hand brush his arm one last time - before her skirts rustled away.

Darcy heaved a sigh of relief.

Wickham, of course, laughed. "You are deft as ever, Fitz. God forbid that you may arm yourself with the power of vision as well."

This time, Darcy found himself smirking.

With twenty careful steps between them, George expertly guided him to a seat towards the side of the assembly hall. Darcy gratefully rested the back of his head against the wall. He hoped they had not aroused suspicion.

"Why could I not have stayed at Netherfield with Richard and Georgie?" He asked just softly enough to keep his words audible only to George.

George laughed again. He always laughed at everything. "You know full well that Bingley finds it his duty to attempt to enliven your life to the best of his abilities."

Darcy smiled. "I suppose I cannot attempt to alter his nature in one visit."

"Nor in a year."

They both chuckled. In the recesses of his mind, he remembered how George appeared as a child - golden-haired and cheerful. He had always been mischievous, never the angel. Yet, all the same, he had been fun.

"Do you wish to dance?" Darcy asked honestly. Far be it from him to keep his most faithful friend away from an activity he so preferred.

"And leave you alone?"

"Some water shall be company enough."

"Shall I request Charles to accompany you?"

"No - let him be." Darcy smiled, then sighed. "He is gladder where he is now, I am sure."

"Perhaps I ought to send for Richard?"

Darcy waved the thought off. "He had just arrived. Do not disturb him."

"And Geor - "

"She is not out. Do not consider."

George paused only very slightly. "Very well. I shall retrieve you a glass."

Darcy smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

His friend's footsteps disappeared quickly in the rambunctious country hall.

* * *

"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry!"

He heard her voice and felt her fingers on his thigh simultaneously. He straightened and pulled away instantly, anxious to add distance between himself and his sudden interlocutor. His state of body had created false cause for more than one single lady to attempt physical liberties that a perfect slate of health would not have permitted.

He was not about to start permitting such gestures today.

"Sir - again, I apologize." The lady's voice was young - almost vibrant. He could not tell if her apology was sincere.

The uncertainty cause him to frown.

"I - I observed your friends to be occupied, sir; and I wondered at your solitude for the past hour."

He felt a slight relief in her statement. There was, at least, no allusion to marriage or _assistance_ of any sort.

He nodded as politely as he could. "You observe well, madame."

She did not answer right away, and he could only hypothesize as to the expression she currently bore.

"Would you wish for a bite, sir - perhaps some water?"

He turned slightly towards her. The scent that wafted off her smelled feminine - a hint of lavender, a touch of mint. The trajectory of her voice indicated that she was not tall - and her head hovered only slightly higher than his while he sat and she stood.

"You are kind to a stranger, madame," he answered vaguely. How long had George been gone? Where had his promised glass of water gone?

"I overheard your words - earlier tonight." There was a hesitation in her voice. For her altogether bold - if accidental - approach, she sounded nearly shy.

He leaned his head to one side. "I fail to understand - "

"Your companion referred to us as wolves, sir," she explained hastily. Darcy slowly remembered Miss Bingley's former comments. "I - I thank you for refusing to agree."

For the majority of his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy knew that whatever he spoke could be easily overheard. Given his sensory limitations, he had grown even more accustomed to avoiding gossip.

He never did know whether listeners stood close or far.

It was Miss Bingley's indiscretion - perfect vision notwithstanding - that surprised him.

"I do not know what to say." He began to ponder who it was that conversed with him. Truly, the company was welcome. Yet, at the very same time, life had granted him a lot that prevented him from trusting easily. Was this woman - this sudden acquaintance - single or married? Was she old or young? If, by sheer luck, his every surmise regarding her person had been correct - what of the traits his ears could not perceive for him?

And when would George return to be his eyes in proxy?

"Thank you, sir, for your civility."

Darcy nodded, unable to commit himself to further expression of any sort.

Silence ensued for another moment, causing him to wonder if his mysterious female companion had rejoined the dancing throngs.

"You do not dance, sir?" There was a clear question in her voice. He congratulated himself for not acting startled at her persistent presence.

He cleared his throat, shuffling slightly. "I do not dance."

"But your friend dances." She did not seem willing to accept his simple profession.

It did not take long for him to decide that she referred to Bingley.

Darcy almost smiled. "Mr. Bingley much prefers the act of dancing. I dare say he is dancing this very moment with the prettiest girl in the room."

She paused slightly, then said. "Thank you, sir."

Her reply confused him, and he frowned once more.

"Did you dance - with him?" He stuttered in his speech, unsure how to proceed without George's guiding remarks. Did people's faces truly speak as much as George said they did? A quick memory assured Darcy that faces did indeed often communicate more than words did.

"Your friend dances with Jane alone. I have not the pleasure."

He did not know if she complained or merely observed.

"You are friends with this lady?" He asked without thought.

There was a smile in her voice. "Very much so. Is your friend - a good man?"

The question, so ill prompted, disturbed him deeply. The natural defense in his spirit that she had worn down in the past few minutes quickly rose back to its usual place. He recalled how her hand had landed on his person earlier, and he remembered that she herself had never called the act an accident.

"I doubt you have much reason to wish to know, madame." His entire person stiffened significantly. He was anxious to be rid of her now. Fortune hunters had no room in his life - nor in his friends'.

"It is you and your friends, sir, who have descended upon _our_ company. I merely ask out of concern and curiosity."

"Do you not find it rather inappropriate, madame, to ask so openly of another man?"

"Curiosity is hardly a fault, sir. I possess every right to ask after your friend."

"Because he is wealthy?" He knew a sliver of his own pain had seeped into his words. He knew that Bingley was friendly and good-looking - that women did not clamor for him only for his wealth, since he had so much more to offer. It was Darcy who did not have such privileged excuses to offer himself.

Yet experience - painful experience - had taught him that women who expressed interest in men upon first acquaintance could only be motivated by desire for the men's deeply-lined pockets.

The sage wisdom of repeated experience was difficult to ignore.

"I beg your pardon, sir!"

Whatever observational skills the lady may have - they clearly did not apply to his inner struggles.

He closed his eyes, frowning keenly.

There was a stillness in the darkness - a serenity in knowing that he had _chosen_ the darkness of his own volition.

"My _sister_ , sir - is no fortune hunter."

And with that statement, she loudly marched away.

* * *

 ** _Nineteen Years Ago_**

* * *

The wooden floor creaked under his feet. He increased his speed slowly, testing each step. He hadn't run for so long - hadn't run since God took away his ability to see. In his mind, he still remembered the hallways - the corners and the rugs. He'd tripped twice yesterday.

It was Mother who insisted he should try again.

"Oh, Master Darcy!"

He reeled back at the last moment, just avoiding the items he heard crashing to the floor. All in all, he'd run for just ten steps.

"Fitzwilliam!"

He tried not to cry, tried with all his might. He felt his mother's arms surround him just when the tears came loose.

He was a smart boy, even though he cried. He knew Mother was watching him. He knew the maid forgave him because she had too. He knew he failed at running in his own home.

"Hush, Fitzwilliam. All will be well." Mother hugged him, soothed him. He wondered if Mother would cry today. She cried last year, when the doctor said he would never see again. "Oh, my son, my son."

Mother liked to call him that. She called him 'son' even more since he hurt his head last week.

"I can't run." He sounded like a babe. He did not like sounding like a babe.

"You are strong, son. You will learn," Mother promised.

"What if I keep hitting people?" He cried again. He worried. Would he never have friends? Would he never climb a tree or ride a horse or walk down the stairs by himself ever again?

"You won't, dear. You won't."

Mother never lied. He believed her.

Behind him, he heard servants talking - people cleaning. He knew he caused trouble, and he didn't like causing trouble.

"George will help you," Mother promised again. She put her hands on both sides of his. Her palms were warm. She smelled nice. "Do not run, then you won't be hurt."

He nodded repeatedly. He would obey. He would do anything to be normal again.

"My Fitzwilliam, my darling Fitzwilliam." Mother hugged him again. He cried on her shoulder. The embroidery on her dress tickled his cheek.

He would obey. He would be careful.

He would let George help him. Mother loved him. Mother wouldn't lie.

* * *

 _A/N: The rest of this story, re-edited and reworked, is now available on Amazon as "That's What Makes It Love" by Iris Lim. Thank you so, so much to everyone for your continuous support for my writing. I hope you will enjoy the future stories I am drafting just as much!  
_

 _Regards,  
Iris_


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